


Letting Go (We're Finally Intertwined)

by zayngasm



Series: Who We Are and Where We're Going [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Anxiety, Depression, Discrimination, Eating Disorders, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry being an unintentional fucking tease, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Lots and lots of Pining, Louis being a fucking tease, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Scars, Sexual Content, Sexual Frustration, Tattoo Kink, Tattoos, Unresolved Sexual Tension, artist!zayn, but it isn't, everyone is pretty much pining over someone, except nialler cause he's a baller, it kind of looks like, lots and lots and lots of ziam feels, musician!harry, scar kink, singer!louis, zarry friendship - Freeform, ziam feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayngasm/pseuds/zayngasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Louis grinds down and Harry's hands tighten on his hips automatically. Louis will probably have bruises tomorrow, but he isn’t complaining. He’s cursing under his breath. “What do you want?” Louis asks. </i>Everything<i>, Harry thinks. He wants </i>everything.</p><p>Two years ago Harry was spending most of his time locked in the bathroom, forcing food out of his stomach or cutting lines into his wrist. Now, while still fighting off depression, his life consists of making out with his best friend (not boyfriend despite what Liam and Zayn seem to think); having a love hate relationship with his (second) job; working out a lot (but not <i>too</i> much); living in a state of near-constant sexual frustration; and trying to convince Louis that <i>no</i>, he really doesn’t want to form a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kissing

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Here it is. *hides*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * lyrics from I’ll Be by Edwin McCain

#  **Part One**

* * *

_And rain falls angry on the tin roof_  
_As we lie awake in my bed._  
_You're my survival, you're my living proof_  
_My love is alive and not dead._  
_Tell me that we belong together._  
_Dress it up with the trappings of love._  
_I'll be captivated,_  
_I'll hang from your lips,_  
_Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above_  
_And I've dropped out, I've burned up, I've fought my way back from the dead._  
_I've tuned in, turned on, remembered the things that you said_

* * *

 

Early September, when the temperature outside is cooling down and leaving the house has no real appeal, Harry decides to teach Louis how to play guitar. It’s a terrible, _terrible_ idea – he’s sure of this before he even voices the decision out loud – but Louis had been bugging him about it for _months_ and Harry can only say no so many times.

They’re sat on the living room floor, guitars resting across their laps, with barely any space between them. Harry keeps trying to scoot back, to give them both some much needed breathing room, but Louis keeps following him; he’s close enough now their knees are pressed together and Harry can feel the heat Louis’s radiating. Harry knows it’s probably a subconscious thing – Louis being so close; he knows that the older boy is a very tactile person and doesn’t quite understand the meaning of _personal space_. The thought that maybe Louis has a problem keeping his hands - or in this case, knees - to himself, though . . . it stirs something warm inside Harry’s tummy, makes the guitar lesson that harder to focus on.

They haven’t made any real progress except for how Louis can now name all the strings and different parts of the guitar. There’s a look of deep concentration on his face; he keeps biting his lip and furrowing his brow. Harry’s about a hundred and seventeen percent sure Louis is doing it all just to mess with Harry’s head. What’s worse is, it’s working; he’s starting to forget why he agreed to this guitar lesson in the first place. He’s torn between the urge to laugh outright at Louis’ expression or to give up, to tackle Louis and tell him how stupidly, _distractingly_ beautiful he is.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Harry tells him, watching Louis struggle with keeping his fingers pressed to the strings. His tone isn’t short or irritated, mostly amused as he tries to keep from laughing; he’s pretty sure it’s making Louis that much more aggravated, angry that Harry’s being so patient with him. For some reason Louis was under the impression learning to play guitar would be easy. Harry’s tempted to tell him just how long it took _him_ to learn and that he didn’t even have anyone to help, but he figures he can enjoy Louis’ exasperation for a little longer.

Ignoring the groan that escapes Louis’ half-parted lips – it’s mostly exaggerated anyways – and still trying to hold in his laughter, Harry leans forward and tugs on Louis’ fingers gently. “Put your hand like this,” he instructs.

Louis grunts. “That feels weird.”

Sitting up straight again, Harry snorts. “Yeah, I know. Get used to it.” Absentmindedly, he holds up his own hand, rubbing the pads of his fingers together. They’re rough and calloused from playing guitar, not soft and smooth like Louis’. His hands are smaller than Harry’s own, too, delicate almost.

Louis grabs for him suddenly, running his fingers over Harry’s. “How long?” he asks quietly, the words barely audible. He exhales warm breath over Harry’s hands, inspecting the callouses with unusual focus.

Harry clears his throat and shrugs, tracking Louis’ movement with his eyes. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How often you play.”

Louis still hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand. The gentle way he brushes his fingers against Harry’s palm feels too intimate for their conversation topic.

“How long did it take before you had -” he starts.

“Guitar fingers?” Harry supplies, jokingly. “Not sure, but I practiced almost every day for _hours,_ and I’ve been playing for years.”

Letting out a sigh, Louis drops his hand. “My fingers hurt.”

“Stop complaining.” He smiles though. “Try it again.”

When Louis strums the guitar and it actually sounds like it’s supposed to, Harry’s grin widens.

“Look! You’re officially playing guitar.”

“Took for fucking ever,” Louis grumbles under his breath.

“You’re complaining again.”

When Louis looks up at him, smiling, his fringe falls into his face. He flicks it out of his eyes and meets Harry’s gaze again. “Thanks for teaching me,” he says, “or, y’know, _attempting_ to teach me.”

Attempting is the right word. They’ve been at his for nearly half an hour, but Louis’s restless and easily distracted; multiple times throughout the guitar lesson he’d stood right up in the middle of Harry trying to show him something important, ignoring him in favor of getting something to eat or drink or point out a commercial on the telly. Eventually Harry had turned off the already muted television and told Louis he wasn’t going to teach him if he didn’t pay attention.

There’s a long few minutes of silence between them during which Harry tries to remember what they’d been talking about. Louis’s looking all distracting again; his smile is wide and blinding, his eyes equally bright. There’s a wicked glint to them, the kind he always gets before doing something he knows Harry probably wouldn’t approve of.

Without even having to ask, Harry shakes his head and sets his guitar aside. “I have to go to work.” It’s supposed to be a reminder, but he thinks it comes out as more of a warning instead.

Louis’ smile quickly turns into a pout. “No,” he drags out the word, whining almost. “Stay and teach me. I’m learning, I promise!” He strums his own guitar again as if to prove his point.

“I know! But if I call in sick again I’m going to get fired.”

“That’s not true,” Louis insists. “Your boss loves you.”

He doesn’t argue – his boss does love him, but that’s no reason to call in. He tries to save his sick days for when he actually _is_ sick (or just completely uncompelled to get out of bed.)

Come December, he’ll have been out of the psych ward a year, but that doesn’t mean every day is rainbows and sunshine. He wouldn’t say he’s still depressed necessarily, and he’s definitely gotten better. There are days, though, here and there, where he flat out cannot go into work, where it takes all his strength just to get out of bed. And not because he’s sad, but because he feels empty; where it feels like everyone around him is moving at hyper speed. He tries to keep up, but he can’t always. It’s like he’s trudging through quicksand, he thinks, and every time he tries to move and get on with his life, he just sinks a little deeper.

Other times it’s like someone has cut him open, took out his heart and his soul and his brain, rearranged everything else, and then zipped him back up again, expecting him to go on acting normal. But he can’t act normal after that, not when pieces are missing and nothing’s in the right place.

Those days are getting further and further apart, but they're there. They still occur, refusing to be ignored. 

Louis scooting closer to him brings Harry out of his thoughts. His eyes narrow as he watches the older boy move, apparently attempting to remove whatever little space is left between them. His guitar must have been discarded off to the side sometime while Harry had been zoned out. Louis is smiling but there’s a look on his face like maybe Harry had been out of it for longer than he’d thought.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks him. It’s a stupid, rhetorical question; he knows what Louis is doing. What he really should be asking is: _are you serious right now_ or _why are you doing this to me?_ He has a hard enough time resisting Louis when he’s all the way across the room, doing absolutely nothing; when Louis turns his focus on Harry, what little self-control he has goes down the drain.

Louis just grins wider, sits up straighter, and presses their lips together.

It’s been well over a year and a half since the first time they kissed; Harry thinks he should probably be used to it by now. (Louis seems intent on making up for lost time, too, those long months when they were barely talking let alone touching or kissing. He’s constantly taking advantage of any free time the two of them might have.) The way he tangles his fingers into Harry’s curls, though, parting his lips just barely, feels just as good – maybe even better – than the first time. Harry just wishes his heart didn’t speed up every time Louis’s within reach, like it’s going for some sort of record.

Whether he wants to or not, Harry finds himself relaxing into the kiss, smiling against Louis’ lips. He wraps his hands around Louis’ waist, using his hold to pull the smaller boy into his lap. Louis makes a happy little noise, wiggling around to get comfortable, and starts peppering kisses along Harry’s jaw.

“I really do have to go to work, Lou.”

Louis hums like _uh huh, sure, yeah, right okay_ , but doesn’t stop kissing him. He bites a mark onto Harry’s lower neck before connecting their lips again. His fingers trail down his chest quickly, brushing the skin exposed between Harry’s shirt and the top of his jeans.

Their lips only break apart for half a second when Louis grips the edge of the shirt and pulls it up and over Harry’s head.

“ _Lou_ ,” he whines.

“Hm?” Louis traces his fingers back down his chest, grinning mischievously. They’re not really kissing much anymore, just breathing the same air and bumping noses as their lips brush against each other’s for the briefest of moments.

“I have to go.” He doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.

Louis nods, a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Okay.”

“Five minutes ago.”

“You should probably go then,” he says seriously. He even pulls back, giving Harry an innocent smile. He cracks a second later, smirking a little to himself before kissing down his chest. His lips brush against sensitive spots, sending chills up and down Harry’s spine. He shivers and Louis smiles against his skin. Harry knows if he could see Louis’ face he’d look proud, be fucking beaming like he does every time he gets that kind of reaction out of Harry. He pulls on Louis’ hair a little, just for payback, but Louis only chuckles again, deep and throaty.

Louis’ right hand brushes Harry's side where a thin white scar stands out just below his ribs. Unintentionally - Harry thinks - Louis stills momentarily, his hand tracing the scar slightly. The moment lasts a fraction of a second if that, but it flashes through Harry’s mind - the memory of where he got the scar in the first place. He has the sudden blinding urge to push Louis away, to get away from his hands and his touch, but the feeling burns out just as fast as it came. Louis’ hands are soothing up and down his sides, pressing gentle kisses to his stomach like he knows what Harry’s thinking.

Knowing Louis, he probably does.

It isn’t until Louis’ lips pass his belly button, when he can feel nimble fingers just barely press against the button of his jeans, that Harry actually does stop him. He tangles their fingers together gently, trying to ignore the jumble of nerves making another sudden appearance in his stomach. He presses a kiss to Louis’ lips, feather light, and then pulls back, untangling their bodies. When Louis is no longer straddling him, he stands up, grabbing his shirt to pull over his head.

There’s a long minute of silence in which Harry tries to ignore the impulse to apologize. He clears his throat, turns his back to Louis and asks, “Are you coming tonight?”

“Apparently not.”

When Harry turns back around, Louis is lying on his back across the floor. His arms are crossed beneath his head and he looks completely unapologetic about the slight tent to his sweatpants. (Harry tries not to feel smug about being the cause - it’s still not something he’s used to - but he has to turn his head away again to hide his grin.)

He opens his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of how that _really_ wasn’t what he meant, but before he can, Louis continues.

“Of course I am; it’s mike night.”

There’s a fond smile on his face, despite the roll of his eyes.

Harry nods, fidgets a little - tightening his hands into fists at his side momentarily before shoving them in his pockets. “Right. Okay. I’ll see you later?”

Usually this would be the moment when he’d kiss Louis goodbye. He’d tell him he’d see him later and Louis would say something ridiculous like ‘don’t miss me too much.’ Louis is still laying on the floor, looking ridiculously tempting with his t-shirt pushed up a little, showing off a bit of his stomach and the trail of hair that disappears into his low slung pants. Harry presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks out the door, knows if he kisses Louis again or even gets within touching distance of the boy, he’ll probably blow off work altogether.

He’s pretty sure he hears Louis laughing a little as the door closes behind him.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night, while putting freshly made muffins in a display box, he listens to Louis sing _Look After You_ by The Fray. It’s one of his favorite songs to cover, but he hasn’t sung it in awhile, so Harry takes the time to pause what he’s doing and watch the way Louis lights up when he’s on stage.

The stage is fairly small, just big enough for two people, a couple stools, and possibly a drum set off to the side if they really squeezed things around. Louis can be extremely energetic on stage, especially when he’s singing, and he’s never let the size of the stage stop him from letting loose. Now, though, he’s sitting on a stool, eyes closed. He’s putting everything he has into the words, belts them out like they’re coming straight from his heart, like he means every damn thing he’s saying. Sometimes Harry momentarily forgets that Louis wasn’t the one to write the words in the first place.

He’s always thought Louis was too attractive to be real - fairyesque almost - but when he starts singing, it reaches a whole new level. Harry would never admit it out loud, but there are times he literally feels _weak in the knees_ and he has to clutch the counter to help keep himself upright.

When Louis is finished, he jumps off the stage; bows dramatically at some of the clapping people; attempts to ruffle Zayn’s hair - who moves out of the way too fast - and then starts over to where Harry is watching.

Before he can make it across the cafe, though, a hand reaches out and stops him.

This is nothing Harry hasn’t seen before. It’s actually more of a shock when Louis _doesn’t_ get stopped for a little chat or a query of his name and number. This feels different, though, and Harry’s brows raise as he takes in the faces of the two older men responsible for stopping Louis. They’re mid-thirties probably; one has a shaved head, the other a goatee. The bald one says something to Louis and the boy freezes. He looks back towards Harry for a second before sliding into the seat across from the two men.

Harry watches them for a moment, wishing he could see Louis’ face instead of just the tightness in his shoulders, before going back to taking orders. When he’s finished, he makes sure everyone who signed up for mike night knows what order they go on in.

The next act - a girl in her late teens early twenties - gets on stage and starts quietly singing a cover version of _Not Like the Movies_ by Katy Perry. This has Niall all sorts of excited; Harry can hear him from all the way across the cafe as he makes a kind of cheerful whoop. It gives the girl a sudden surge of confidence and the volume of her voice goes up a notch.

An older fellow comes up the counter, looking like he feels out of place, but intrigued all the same. Harry sets about making the man’s coffee and wrapping up a still steaming blueberry muffin to go. Even after he has his order, the man idles by the door. He catches Harry watching and fumbles into one of the few open seats.

By now the Katy Perry Girl is finished and Harry watches with mild interest as Niall attempts - and succeeds - to chat her up. Harry’s already got the blond’s regular snickerdoodle cookies and hot chocolate ready; when Niall shows up at the counter with the Katy Perry Girl close at his side, he slides the plate and mug towards him.

“Anything for you?” he asks the girl.

She smiles briefly, but shakes her head. She looks a little shy again, her dark red hair falling into her eyes.

“You can have one of my cookies!” Niall offers - which, really, Harry wants to tell the girl that _that_ is a pretty big deal. Niall doesn’t share food with just anyone.

The blond doesn’t even try to be inconspicuous as he takes a couple fivers from his wallet and shoves them into the tiny opening of the bakery’s tip jar. Harry presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything - it would be pointless if he did anyway; Niall never listens.

Niall grins at Harry like he can read his thoughts. He takes the cookies and drink, offering his arm to the girl, and mouths a ‘thank you’ to Harry as he passes.

Harry just shakes his head and waves him off.

 

Ever since Harry started working at the cafe, it’s busiest times have always been Monday mornings and Friday mike nights. The mike nights have become quite popular in the neighborhood, and thanks to being within walking distance of the local university, they get a lot of business from college kids. Still, it’s Friday night and a lot of people have better places to be than hanging around a cafe. They don’t get a lot of stranglers after nine and Natalie, the girl who shares most of his shifts with him, has already gone home for the evening. So when the bell above the door chimes nearly thirty minutes before closing time, Harry’s a little surprised.

He’s even more shocked when he looks up to see Liam walk through the door.

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” Harry says as the older boy approaches the counter. He glances at his watch to double check the time. "One that started  like  _an hour_ ago?" 

Liam is dressed for said date, wearing a snugly fit blue button-up and what Louis likes to call his ‘interview pants.’ He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, unintentionally showing off some of the muscle he works so hard to keep (and that Harry swears he isn’t jealous of.) He brushes a hand through his hair before meeting Harry’s gaze and shrugs his shoulder, only half paying attention.

“Oh, you know,” he responds vaguely, glancing over the cafe again. “Bussiness good?”

Harry knows a desperate attempt to change the subject when he hears one, but doesn’t push it. He just nods his head and grins a little. “Better every day. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good. I’ll just, uh . . . go see how Niall’s doing, yeah.”

It comes out more of a question than anything and Harry’s eyes automatically follow Liam’s line of vision.

For the past half hour or so Zayn’s been cuddling with Perrie on the beanbags in the corner by the stage. Harry knows this because Zayn had basically declared the neon green beanbag _his for eternity_ and that’s always where the lads end up. Now, though, Zayn is standing  in the middle of the cafe, looking frozen in place like something stopped him from approaching the counter. (Harry doesn’t have to question what this something - _someone_ \- is.) Zayn looks towards the counter (Liam), then to the door (escape route) and then back to where Perrie (semi-safety) is waiting.

Less than five seconds have gone by. Liam pushes away from the counter and heads over to the beanbag chairs. When he passes Zayn, he knocks their shoulders together in a ‘hey there’ gesture but doesn’t say anything.

Harry watches with mild amusement and then goes back to scrubbing the counter, waiting for the inevitable.

“He does it on purpose, you know,” comes Zayn’s voice shortly later.

“How’s Perrie?” is all Harry replies with, a hint of mocking to his tone.

Zayn sighs. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know,” Harry agrees, but he’s grinning. “You’d think I’d treat my best friend better, but . . .” He shrugs.

“Oh please.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “We all know your boyfriend is your best friend.”

“He’s not my boy-”

Zayn waves it off with a hand, doesn’t let Harry finish (they have this conversation so many times, Harry practically has it memorized at this point), and glances back to where Liam is now sitting with Niall, Perrie and the Katy Perry Girl. Louis is still sitting at the table with the older men. The tightness is gone from his shoulders, Harry notes, otherwise he’d have come up with some excuse to go over there and interrupt by now.

“He’s not doing it on purpose,” Harry argues, jumping back to the original not-so-much-of-a-conversation conversation. “I mean, this is _Liam_ we’re talking about. He’s completely oblivious to these things.”

Zayn drops his hands down onto the counter. “He came to my flat the other day.” He’s using his do-not-fuck-with-me tone and Harry bites down a laugh. “He asked me for advice on cologne for his _date_.”

“Well.” Harry clears his throat and shrugs. “You _are_ the only person I know who actually uses cologne, so.” He shrugs again. “I’m ninety percent sure it wasn’t part of some master plan to torture you. Although,” he grins, “the idea of you picking out cologne for him is _hilarious_. Wish I could’ve been there. You didn’t happen to get it on video, didja?”

Zayn’s eyes narrow a little before he says, “So what’s the deal with you and Louis, huh? Not boyfriends, yet you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other. What’s that about?”

Harry doesn’t look up, doesn’t let the words affect him. “I hope you realize it would probably hurt a lot if I punched you in the face right now.”

“That’s what I thought.” Harry doesn’t have to glance up at Zayn to know he’s smiling. “Look,” Zayn’s tone is softer now, “I think you should just seal the deal. Proclaim your love right here in front of everybody! Go up and kiss him. It would be fucking romantic. People would applaud. It might even end up on YouTube.” There’s a half second pause. “Mate, you could go _viral_.”

He pretends to contemplate it for half a second. (He doesn’t want to bring up the fact that he’s pretty much done all those things already. It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re in that weird ‘more than friends, yet not officially dating’ stage, and Louis is the world’s biggest commitment phobe. If Harry had to put a label on what he and Louis are, he’d say it’s something like an exclusive friends with benefits flirtashonship kind of thing. He’s thought too much about it, but he’ll take what he can get.)

“How about you go up and kiss Liam?” He gestures towards said boy with his dishrag. “Maybe I’ll get inspired.”

Shaking his head, Zayn yanks the rag from his grip and throws it at Harry’s face. “I repeat: asshole.”

 

As per every other Friday night, Louis and Harry are the last ones to leave the cafe. Most of the lights are off, the glow from the kitchen and street lamps outside enough to see by. Louis is sitting on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth while he picks apart a banana nut muffin. Harry flips the last chair up onto it’s corresponding table before he goes about sweeping the place. It’s quiet except for the quiet humming coming from under Louis’ breath. It’s peaceful and nice, a major difference to how chaotic the place can get during the day, college students rushing around, begging for their caffeine fix.

“You could hire someone to do that for you, you know,” Louis suggests absentmindedly.

“I’m only the assistant manager, Louis,” Harry points out. “It doesn’t really work that way.” 

“You fired Cher.”

“That’s different. She was a temp and wasn’t doing her job.”

“Too busy ogling you,” Louis says from under his breath. Harry can still hear him, though, and he halts his ministrations to look over at the older boy. Louis just shrugs in a ‘ _i regret nothing’_ sort of way and shoves another piece of muffin into his mouth with more force than is probably necessary.

Harry goes back to sweeping out from under the tables. There’s an empty to-go cup under one of them and he picks it up, tossing it in the nearest trash can.

“I’m just saying,” Louis says slowly, something in his tone causing Harry to stop what he’s doing again. This isn’t like their usual end-of-the-night conversation. “If there was someone else to close up at night, we could be home already . . . making out. Also, I wouldn’t have to be wearing ridiculously tight pants. Or, y’know, any pants at all for that matter.” He shifts around as if to bring his point to focus.

He does this a lot, complaining about how his pants never leave him any room to breathe, and Harry’s use to it by now. He gave up on reminding Louis that he could _wear different pants_ a long time ago. (He doesn’t actually _want_ Louis to stop wearing his skinny jeans anyway.) Harry’s pretty sure Louis just wishes it were socially acceptable to wear sweatpants and pajamas everywhere.

There’s something to his tone this time, though, something different in the way Louis looks when he says it: the way he shrugs, like his words are completely casual even though Harry can see his gaze darkening the longer they look at each other. Harry’s mouth goes dry and his mind is completely wiped clean of everything he needed to do before locking up. He doesn’t know if it’s from the realization that Louis’ pants really are _that_ ridiculously tight (more so than usual), or the image of Harry getting to take off said pants, or because Louis has decided now is a good time to reach behind the counter and pull Harry’s jumper over his head.

It’s Harry’s favorite jumper, too - the off white one he used to wear all the time. It’s not as big as some of his newer ones but it still swallows Louis up pretty well. Louis starts swinging his legs again, apparently oblivious to the miniature meltdown Harry’s having. He drops the last bit of muffin into his mouth and swallows before going about licking his fingers free of crumbs . . . ridiculously slowly.

A seven-year-old could have picked up on the innuendo behind the action. A mile away. Blindfolded.

It takes everything inside of Harry not to cross the cafe right then. _Screw clean up_ , he thinks, but he does pick up his fallen - _when the hell did that happen?_ \- broom.

“You know, if you stopped distracting me, I would be finished already,” Harry quips, but it lacks his usual cheek.

“Oh, am I distracting you?” Louis asks, feining innocence. “I had no idea.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes and just throw his broom across the cafe to where Louis is lounging _oh so casually_.

“Ha ha ha,” he says instead. “Fuck you, Lou,” and he flips him off.

He’s pretty sure Louis’ answering laugh can be heard all the way outside. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

Harry can’t _not_ look up at that and watches as Louis rolls up the sleeves of the jumper to free his hands better. Because it’s _that_ big on him. If there were any straws left, that would’ve been the last one. He decides to give up on actually getting any work done. He’ll apologize to everyone on morning shift later.

It only takes him a few long strides to make it in front of Louis.

Louis hums a little and licks his lips. “Did you need something, Hazza?”

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

The older boy grins and finally looks up, meeting Harry’s gaze. “Always my plan, Harry. Don’t for one second ever doubt that this isn’t always my plan.” He trails his hand up Harry’s arm until it’s cupping the back of his neck, fingers playing with the small curls there.

“You are truly ridiculous.” He shakes his head, pulls Louis in by the jumper, and kisses him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. Not even a little bit. It’s not soft or slow. They skip past all that, already so familiar with each other. It’s heated from the start, fast, a little chaotic (and a little weird because Louis tastes like banana nut muffin), and it isn’t long till Harry has to pull back to catch his breath. He doesn’t go far, just leans his chin against Louis’ forehead.

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist to pull him in closer, and Harry doesn’t have to look down to know he’s grinning. “I had a dream we were doing this.” He sounds a little breathless and when Harry glances at him, his eyes are still closed. “You were wearing a lot less clothes, though.” His eyes snap open and he sneaks his fingers under Harry’s shirt. His touch tickles more than anything, but still manages to send heat shooting down Harry’s spine. “Actually,” Louis amends, “I don’t think you were wearing any clothes.”

He doesn’t really take Louis seriously, but there’s this look in his eyes like he’s picturing - or remembering, maybe? - it. He reaches for the hem of Harry’s shirt, but Harry takes a reluctant step back.

“Come on,” Louis pouts, reaching out for Harry again, “you do not need to be wearing a shirt right now. I’m actually convinced you don’t need to be wearing a shirt ever. I’m thinking about starting a petition.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re not taking off my shirt. There are cameras in here.” Louis whines a little, trying to pull Harry in. “There are windows . . . someone could walk by.”

Louis gives him this _look_ though and Harry can’t really say no to that. He steps back and  presses their lips together again. Louis grins against his mouth and reaches for his shirt again. Harry doesn’t stop him this time, because really, who is he to deny the boy any and everything he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't make any promises about how often I'll update. I don't even technically have a working computer right now; I've been borrowing my sister's laptop. But I really wanted to put this up. I have about a third of it written, though, so I'll try to update as much as I can! :)
> 
> *title (partly) comes from secret valentine by we the kings


	2. Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Wow. First off, I just wanted to say, the amount of love and support I've gotten for this even though I have been terrible about updating is AMAZING. You all deserve hugs and brownies and if I could send you both through the internet, I would. Just know that all the positive feedback makes my heart happy <3 
> 
> About this chapter: lots of drama. Because that's this series in a nutshell. Sorry if that surprises you. On the plus side: the drama won't last that long this time!!! A few chapters at most and then lots more awesome and fluff to come. :) 
> 
> I'm sure some people might read this chapter and think "wow, hazza, overdramatic much?" but. he has abandonment issues the size of texas. also louis has daddy issues. 
> 
> These next few chapters are my least favorite /: as soon as i get them out of the way, I should be updating a lot more. I'm a college student so I can't make any promises except that I'll TRY VERY HARD to update whenever I possibly can. 
> 
> :) 
> 
> p.s. i am an actual human being. so if you have anything remotely negative or criticizing to say (idc if it's meant in a nice way) don't send it my way. this is a fanfiction. i'm just writing it because it's a good stress reliever and i love y'all and it's fun. if i say anything that seems insulting trust me that i do not intend for it to come across that way. 
> 
> p.s.s. i know very little about the music industry. sorry for any inaccuracies

Sharing a bed with Louis so frequently means Harry’s gotten use to waking up sweltering hot. Louis radiates heat like a furnace, even when the boy himself claims to feel cold. When Harry opens his eyes early Saturday morning, he’s pretty sure his entire body is covered in sweat. He can feel his hair - losing it’s natural curl - plastered to his forehead, and the gym shorts he’d worn to bed are practically clinging to his upper thighs. He moves his legs around, trying to get the shorts off without actually getting up or moving his hands. Louis, curled into Harry’s side - of course, the clingy fucker - grumbles at the movement. He tightens his arm around Harry’s waist, raising the heat from uncomfortable to  _un-fucking-bearable_.

(Harry only curses the boy momentarily - mentally - because it’s not like he  _wants_  Louis to stop being clingy.)

He manages to kick off the comforter, watching as it falls to the ground in a heap, leaving their bodies exposed to the slightly cooler temperature of the room. It’s better, but still too hot for him to even think about falling back asleep. He knows Louis will probably sleep for another couple hours at least; as far as Harry knows, Louis doesn’t have work, so he might just sleep the entire day away until he has to leave for rehearsal. Harry’d be content to just lay here, close his eyes and try to relax -

(One of Louis’ legs is thrown over Harry’s. He can feel the boy’s chilly toes - the only cold part of him - every time either of them so much as breathes. His arm is draped haphazardly across Harry’s chest. His hand rests near Harry’s hips and every few minutes he can feel Louis’ fingers brushing over his skin.)

-but Harry has a restless kind of energy moving through his veins. He doesn’t like to stay still for too long; it gives him too much space to think. And  _thinking_ is something he actively avoids. (Despite what his therapist says, he doesn’t really agree that bringing up things from his past will help him move on whatsoever. For all he cares, the past can stay buried.)

Tigger chooses this moment to jump up on his chest and nuzzle between him and Louis. Harry tries to glare at her for making his task that much more difficult, but she’s too tiny and adorable; it doesn’t really work. At least she didn’t bring them a dead mouse this time. Waking up to rodents in your face is never pleasant.

Thankfully Louis is quite literally the  _heaviest sleeper of all time_ , so it doesn’t take much effort on Harry’s part to disentangle them and slip out of bed. Tigger starts meowing at him almost immediately. As soon as Harry promises to feed her, she’s jumping off the bed and disappearing out the door - presumably to go and wait by her food dish like the impatient overeater she is.

He sends Liam a one word text:  _awake?_ and even though it’s not quite eight o’clock yet, Liam replies within a few minutes.

_Course. Pick you up in thirty?_

Harry’s already pulling on clean shorts and a sleeveless shirt.  _I’ll be ready._

~*~*~*~*~

Becoming Liam’s workout partner was kind of an accident. Harry had started jogging in the mornings, trying to stay in shape without being obsessive about it - working out was better than not eating - and to help rid himself of the restless energy he always carries around. One day, in passing, Liam had mentioned a new gym he’d been thinking about joining. Harry had gone with him to check it out and, next thing he knew, Liam was picking him up most mornings and even some evenings to go running or weight lifting.

Working out with Liam is  _nice_ , kind of like a breath of fresh air he didn’t know he needed. A weight had lifted off his chest, and it’s been a surefire way to mend the slight awkwardness between them. Liam’s gotten over his crush on Louis and has even gone so far as to joke about when Harry’s going to ‘ _hurry up and purpose already_.’ Despite Harry repeatedly telling him and Zayn both that they’re  _not dating_ , the two lads have called dibs on being the best men.

They’ve been running for about an hour when Harry slows to a halt. He’s grossly sweaty again and all his muscles are aching. He wants nothing more than to head back to the gym and possibly soak in the hot tub for a good while, but knows there’s a very slim chance Liam will actually let him do either of those things yet. The lad is still jogging in place, facing Harry now, only pausing every few seconds to stretch his arms over his head.

He’s a machine, really, it’s not even funny anymore.

“Come on, slow poke. We barely made five miles.”

Harry just stares at him for a few minutes, but nope, of course Liam is being one hundred percent serious. Groaning, he shakes his head and throws his water bottle at him. Liam, of course, just catches it one handed - still jogging in place - and takes a long swig.

“I hate you,” Harry grumbles.

“No, you don’t. You love me.”

Harry grunts again, doesn’t argue, and pulls his phone out of the waistband of his shorts to check the time. He’s greeted by three missed calls from Louis. He presses call back, holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder, and kneels down to retie his shoes.

“Hey, what d’ya need?” he asks offhandedly when Louis answers.

Louis’s voice is layered in sarcasm when he replies. “Good morning to you, too, sweetums.”

“Li and I are at the gym,” he says in way of explanation, though he’s sure Louis already guessed as much. “And it’s already ten thirty.”

“I’m pretty sure you mean it’s  _only_ ten thirty.”

“Hey!” Liam tosses the water bottle back, hitting Harry on the side of the head. “No talking to your boyfriend when we’re supposed to be working out.”

“He’s my motivation to get in shape,” Harry quips back, winking. “Besides, we’re taking a break, and he’s not my -”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Liam interrupts. He’s giving him this  _look_ much like Zayn’s  _look_ and Harry seriously debates dumping the bottle of water over Liam’s head. He’d do it too, but then he’d have nothing to drink.

He settles for glaring and says to Louis, “Your best friend is being mean to me.”

Louis chuckles sleepily. “Fucker. Tell him I’m flipping him off.”

Harry passes on the message and Liam looks mock-offended, even turning his back on Harry momentarily.

“I was just calling to check in,” Louis continues.

“You called me three times, Lou. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” comes his immediate reply, but there’s something off about his voice. “What about you?” he asks quietly. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” he says quickly. “Just missing you s’all.”

Harry smirks, but turns away from Liam slightly, trying to hide his pleased grin. He doesn’t think it works if Liam’s eye rolling is anything to go by.

“Liar,” he says into the phone, voice quieter. He whirls around, keeping his back to Liam completely to give himself the illusion of privacy.

“It’s true! The bed is cold without you.” Harry can actually  _hear_ Louis pouting.

“You’re still in bed. Why am I not surprised?”

When he glances back, Liam’s making hurry-up gestures with his hand, pointing at his watch.

This time Harry flips him off himself.

There’s a half a second pause before Louis says, like it should be completely obvious, “Uh, that’s because no one has brought me breakfast yet.”

“You’re such a lazy ass,” Harry replies fondly. “If Liam doesn’t kill me, I’ll come home soon and make you pancakes.”

“I probably won’t be here when you get back. I have stuff to do.”

“Stuff to do,” Harry repeats slowly. “How very vague and mysterious.

He makes a noise of confirmation. “Very. See you this afternoon?”

“I have to work. I won’t see you till tonight.”

Louis groans and Harry can actually  _hear_ the frown in his voice when he says, “ _Fine_. Bye.” He drags the bye out like it has nineteen syllables instead of one.

When Harry says his own goodbye and hangs up, Liam’s arms are crossed over his chest. He’s attempting a faux annoyed look that doesn’t go with his puppy dog eyes one bit.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Can you two go five minutes without talking to each other?”

“Can you and Zayn go five minutes without making sex eyes at each other?” he shoots back automatically, tucking his phone back into the waistband of his shorts.

Liam’s face goes bright red - which does, incidentally, go with his puppy eyes. “We should run,” he says.

Harry grins. “That’s what I thought.”

~*~*~*~*~

It’s probably a good thing he’s already on antidepressants, Harry thinks. Otherwise, he’d doesn’t think he’d be able to survive his job. Not working at the cafe - though that can be quite stressful during the early morning rush - but his second job, the one he got writing songs. The fact that he’s honestly contemplating asking his psychiatrist to increase his intake is probably a sign he should quit said job. He can’t though; he signed a contract that isn’t up for another six month and he doesn’t  _actually_  hate it. Most of the time he actually quite loves it. He enjoys writing songs and he’s pretty good at it.

Sometimes, though, he really just wants to shoot himself in the face. Or possibly his boss.

Today is one of those days.

He’s been working directly for a label for a little over a month now, writing songs alongside bands and solo artists. It’s great, really,  _great_  money and better opportunities. He meets a lot of awesome people and sometimes gets invited to pretty exclusive events. He can’t help but miss the days when he was a simple staff writer, though, when no one thought twice about who he was and he could laze around in his sweats half the time.

Tanner, his temporary boss - the one he kind of wants to slap - is sitting across the conference table from him with a client. Justin or Hunter or something, Harry doesn’t know; this is the first time they’ve met and Tanner doesn’t always bother with formalities. Justin/Hunter is an old client, but isn’t very well known. Tanner has a list of possible reasons why this could be: his girlfriend is holding him back; his songs just aren’t what people are looking to listen to at the moment; it’s hard to market a solo artist right now. The last of which is true, but Harry thinks Tanner could at least be a little nicer about it, not drop a bomb on his head and act like there’s no hope whatsoever.

Harry’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, hidden from view. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t have a migraine strong enough to twist everything in his stomach like it’s about to come screeching to the top of his throat. He thinks he’s failing, though - if the looks Justin/Hunter keeps shooting him are anything to go by. He has to resist the temptation to bang his head against the table, knowing that’ll only make it worse and draw more attention to himself.

Tanner is talking again, softer tones now, something about forming a band. Harry hears his own name and looks up, finally focusing on the conversation.

“Harry here can help you work out some of the kinks in your lyrics. He’s a godsend, really. Give him a week tops and he’ll have an album people will be fighting each other over to get their hands on.” He snaps his fingers. “Top of the charts, no problem. I wish I’d found him earlier.”

He really hates when Tanner does this, making promises and beaming at him like Harry’s his special little star. Practically pimping him out, really, that’s what it feels like. And then going and giving him a time limit like Harry doesn’t already have enough shit going on in his life as it is.

It’s his job, though, and technically - legally probably - he’s not allowed to complain.

So he nods and smiles at the boy - he really needs to learn his name now that they’ll be working together. Justin/Hunter grins at him like he’s a lifesaver, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve him.

Harry wants to take his gratitude and drown himself in it.

 

 

He doesn’t even make it home before he’s throwing up the contents of his stomach, locked in one of the staff bathrooms.

~*~*~*~*~

“You look like someone ran you over with a mack truck.”

Louis sounds a little worried, but mostly amused. It isn’t the first time he’s come home to find Harry lying face down in bed, cursing life and his general existence, swearing to never move again.

Harry just grunts in response and doesn’t turn over. There are a few minutes of silence in which Harry assumes Louis’s left, probably to get ready for rehearsal, but then the older boy drops suddenly on top of him. Straddling him, Louis presses his hands into the sore muscles of Harry’s shoulders.

“Do I even want to know?” he asks as he massages.

He can already feel himself start to relax and he turns his head to the side to speak. “Just the usual bullshit.”

Louis makes a sympathetic noise. “You work too hard,” he says after a moment.

His hands are kneading into Harry’s back, just the right amount of pressure, and Harry’s pretty sure he could fall asleep like this. It takes him a few minutes to register what Louis said, too blissed out.

“Not really. I just work with assholes. It’s an industry  _full_  of assholes,” he corrects. “Why do people bother?”

It’s a rhetorical question and Louis only smirks in response. Harry really does start to drift off then; Louis’s hands feel so good.

He’s woken up however long later by Louis clambering off of him. The older boy settles down next to him, and Harry turns a little so he can wrap an arm around his waist and bury his face in the juncture between Louis’s neck and shoulder. This as good as the massage.

“I have to talk to you about something,” Louis tells him quietly.

He hums in response, letting Louis know he’s got his attention.

“Do you remember the two men I was talking to last night?”

Harry nods but doesn’t lift his head. “Yeah, I was wondering what they wanted . . . you know, besides your number. Creepers.”

There’s a moment where Louis huffs out a kind of half-laugh, but then it’s silent while he runs a hand through Harry’s curls. A second too late, Harry realizes his hand is shaking. He doesn’t get a chance to ponder it, though, cause Louis says six words that derail every thought he has.

“They work for a record label.”

_They work for a record label_ , Harry repeats the words inside his head, trying to make sense of them.

“Oh.” He tries to hide the fact that he’s completely frozen. He stretches his fingers a little, trying to get the feeling back and resist the urge to curl them into fists.

“They thought I was really good,” Louis continues slowly.

“You  _are_ really good.”  _But you’ve never shown any interest in getting a record deal_ , Harry wants to add. They used to joke about auditioning for x-factor but that was different. Harry didn’t think they were ever serious.

And even if they were, it was always a  _we_  thing. Something they would do  _together_.

He looks up and Louis is smiling a little. He still hasn’t relaxed, though. He twists some of Harry’s curls around his finger gently, absentmindedly, almost like a nervous habit.

“I had a meeting today. That’s where I was.”

_Stuff to do_ , Harry remembers.

The words don’t surprise him as much as he thought they would, but he still feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. So much, in fact, he’s having a hard time breathing. He closes his eyes tightly, tries to will away the unnecessary panic attack he knows is trying to worm it’s way through him. He can feel his body heat up from the inside out; his heart starts to race; and he gives in to temptation, closing his hand into a fist tight enough he’s sure his nails will leave marks in his palm.

When he finally opens his eyes, Louis is staring at him. His expression is completely blank, void of any feeling whatsoever. Harry can’t read the emotion in his eyes and it’s making him feel uncomfortable and cut off, like he’s missing a vital part of himself. It doesn’t help with his panicked mood. He sits up, runs a hand through his messy hair, and curls his fingers in it a little.

“That’s uh . . . alright?”

“You’re freaking out,” Louis deadpans. He moves to sit up.

_Obviously_ , he wants to snap.  _Clearly_ he’s freaking out. Why  _wouldn’t_ he be freaking out? And okay, rationally, he knows he shouldn’t be having this kind of reaction. He should be happy for Louis. And deep, deep,  _deep_ down, he is. But he can’t. This wasn’t part of the plan . . . this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Louis wasn’t supposed to get a record deal - because  _of course_ they’ll sign him - and he wasn’t supposed to get famous . Harry can already see it happening. He can already feel the absence Louis will leave in his place.

Louis was always meant for greater things.

Harry shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. “No. I just thought . . . I didn’t think you’d be interested in a record deal, y’know. I thought . . . well, I always figured you wanted to act, stick with theater. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

He shrugs a shoulder in response and leans back against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest, almost like a barrier between them, Harry thinks. “Back-up plan, really,” he says. “This is a good opportunity. I can’t pass it up.”

“...meaning?”

Louis just raises an eyebrow, though, like it should be obvious.

Harry stands up automatically, needs to put some distance between them so he can think, so he can breathe. Louis’ eyes track his every movement.

“Are you actually thinking about pursuing this?”

Louis doesn’t answer the question. Instead says, “Why does it sound like you’re about to lecture me?”

Harry presses his lips together because honestly that’s  _exactly_ what this conversation was heading towards. Louis sits up straight, eyebrows raised again, waiting.

“ _Well_  . . . haven’t you been listening to me?” He knows he sounds like an asshole, but he can’t think straight, doesn’t know how to stop this. How else is he supposed to stop Louis from leaving him?

Oh,  _God_ , Louis is going to  _leave him_.

Louis doesn’t get off the bed, but stands up on it. If the situation wasn’t so serious, Harry would probably laugh. He feels a little like shrinking away, though; he’s never been a fan of angry-Louis. It’s unnatural.

“ _Yes_ , Harry,” he says. “I  _do_ listen to you. I listen to every  _damn_ thing you say. But that’s you and your opinion, not me, and I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Harry argues.

Louis jumps down from the bed and stalks out of the room. Harry follows him, still trying to process, still talking, words coming out of his mouth faster than he can even think. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, just knows he needs to do whatever he can to keep Louis from leaving him.

(If he could think straight, he’d probably realize this isn’t the smartest way to go about it. But Harry’s never been good with rationality.)

“It’s all ‘dog eat dog’ out there, everyone only thinking about themselves and whatever’s going to make them more money. They’d make you pretend to be straight, Louis. After everything I’ve told you, all the stories - sure, some get famous, their music gets out there, but their privacy is  _gone_. They have no freedom. It ruins their lives. I just thought you would know better than to -”

“ _Know better_?” Louis repeats, interrupting him. He laughs once humorlessly. “Oh yeah, cause I’m  _so stupid_. ‘Louis can’t take care of himself. He doesn’t know what’s best for him. He’ll always be annoying and hyperactive and  _stupid_ ,” Louis mocks in an approximation of what Harry knows is his biological father’s voice though he’s never actually even met the man.

Harry’s really gone and pissed him off now.

“Yeah right.” Louis spins around suddenly, his hand stilled on the front door’s handle. “You know what? Fuck you, Harry. Fuck. You.”

Harry jumps back at the acid in his tone. “What’re you doing?”

“I knew you wouldn’t handle this well, but I thought you’d at least be happy for me,” he says like this is supposed to answer Harry’s question. “I didn’t think you’d jump down my throat.”

He knows he needs to say something, needs to explain the real reason why the idea of Louis getting a record deal scares the daylights out of him. He can’t open his mouth, though. This is all happening way too fast. Weren’t they just hanging out in bed complaining about Harry’s job - the same business Louis wants to get involved with - five minutes ago?

Louis rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath. “God, I can’t even look at you right now. I’m going to go stay with Liam until you figure out what a  _jackass_ you’re being.”

There’s a long silence.

“So that’s it then,” Harry hears himself say. He’s been waiting for months, wondering when they’d hit that inevitable fork in the road. He knew this in between stage couldn’t last long. He also knew in all likelihood their somewhat of a relationship wouldn’t last, but deep down he thought Louis might change his mind at the last second. “This is how it’s going to be? You’re leaving me.” His voice sounds much steadier than he’s expecting.

The look of incredulous-ness on Louis’ face sends Harry’s heart into his stomach. He has to fight to stay rooted in place when Louis takes a step towards him.

“No, Harry. You don’t get to pin this one on me. Not this time. This one’s all on you.” He jams his finger at Harry’s chest before storming out of the flat.

The sound of the door slamming brings Harry’s migraine back full swing. He watches, almost in slow motion, as the little table next to the door shakes as a result of Louis bumping into it on his way out. The little dish where they keep their keys - already too close to the edge to begin with - tilts precariously before finally shattering to the floor. Louis’ house key spins across the tile, stopping when it hits Harry’s bare foot.

He tries not to think of it as a sign.

 

 

He’s half-expecting the call, so he doesn’t know whether to be surprised or not when Liam rings him up late that night. It takes him a good while to actually answer.

“He’s here,” Liam says.

Harry resists the urge to say  _I know_. Even if Louis hadn’t told him - where else would he have gone?

“He told me not to call you.”

“Why did you then?” he snaps.

Liam doesn’t dignify that with a response, just sighs a little. “You’re an idiot, mate.”

Harry scrubs a hand over his face and nods even though Liam can’t see him.

“I kind of want to go over there and punch you, but Lou said I wasn’t allowed to.”

He opens his mouth - to say what, he doesn’t know - and closes it. He shuts his eyes and tries to breath.

Had this been Zayn on the other end, the lad would’ve had something to say. A lot of things actually. He’d probably come over here and smack Harry upside the head, tell him what a dipshit he’s being, whether Louis liked it or not. Niall would be ridiculously unbiased like he always is, would invite everyone out for a pint or a bite to eat cause that’s how he fixes things.

Liam, though, just waits, quiet and patient while Harry falls apart and tries to stitch himself back together.

“I miss him already,” he says eventually.

Liam sighs understandably and says, “Mate, he hasn’t gone anywhere.”   


End file.
